


When the dust settles, I will carry you home.

by Robin1103



Series: When the dust settles, I will carry you home. [1]
Category: Hatfilms, The Yogscast
Genre: AU, Angst, Child Abuse, Hatfilms - Freeform, Multi, Urban Magic Yogs, Urban magic setting, the garbage court, umy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:36:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27649646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Robin1103/pseuds/Robin1103
Summary: Somehow they'd found each other. They're never letting anyone tear them apart. Bound together, The Garbage court grows.
Relationships: Alex Smith/Chris Trott, Alex Smith/Ross Hornby, Ross Hornby/Chris Trott, Sips/Alex smith/Chris trott/Ross hornby
Series: When the dust settles, I will carry you home. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2021696
Kudos: 4





	1. Prologue to the Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiii I've been sitting on this for abt a year but I figured I'd say fuck it n post it! 
> 
> Obviously this is a work of fiction, no disrespect meant to the hat lads.

It’s sobering to think about your beginnings. Especially when the thoughts keep you up at night. Especially when you've become something amazing, when it felt like the entire world was set on killing him. 

Memories play in his mind and there’s joy, sorrow, anger, love, hate and all the rest of it. He feels lucky to be alive, after everything he’s done and everything that’s happened to him. 

Life is snatched from the kind, the only way to keep it is to be just as mean as existence. He learnt this at an early age.

Trott would never have guessed his life would pan out this way. He didn't have that wide of a scope. His young imagination couldn't have ever reached this far. Even if under pressure, his non-broadened mind wouldn't have been able to envision something this different from where he began. 

Sometimes that makes him laugh until he cries. At last, he feels free. Properly free.


	2. Chapter one: From the depths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We learn of Trott's home, his status, his problems and his eventual escape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think in the comments below pls :3  
> -  
> TW's: Child abuse. All through this chapter.

Trott wakes up. He wakes up and he's whole. Part of him rears up at the thought of enduring another day. 

For a moment he has to check if he's seeing things correctly if that is his bedroom ceiling; it is.

Someone must've moved him after his father stormed out. Most likely a duty bound guard or an uncaring brother. 

Pain bursts along his body. He tears up from it but he's alive and he can breathe well enough. 

He forces himself to breath, to calm and force the tears away. His ribs are bruised. That much he knows. 

There’s a familiar ache in his chest, different to the physical pain. He knows that it's not from the punishment.

He lets himself lie there for a while, listening to the dull sounds of people moving around in the corridors.

It's soothing, to be away from the flurry of activity. To not be under his father's searching gaze. 

After twenty minutes or so, his door pushes open. Disturbing the silence. He tenses, letting out a wince as his ribs groan.

He looks up to see his mother, a worried look on her face. 

“How are you feeling? Anything broken?” 

Her voice makes Trott’s heart twist. He ignores the child inside of him that aches to throw himself in her arms. 

He props himself up and shakes his head at the second question. Not trusting his voice to do anything. 

She comes closer and reaches out. He's familiar with this. 

After an attack from his father, she visits him. Of course any other time she is indifferent. He sinks into the old painful routine and sighs quietly. He's too tired to stop her. It's pointless, does nothing for him, part of him wonders if it's she needs this.

Eventually she chooses to sit on his bed and smooth down his hair. She runs her hands across his face in an all too familiar way. He feels fragile and unsafe, when she takes him into her arms.

“What does Father expect of me today?” He mumbles into her chest. It's easier to talk about requirements than to talk about emotions and unsureities.

He hears her exhale, then a reply in a voice that's a touch too cold to be caring. He feels all childlike nostalgia fade away. Silly him.

“Your guard duties. And Study, I know you like that.” She goes quiet for a moment, “but no hunting. And your study will be limited to two hours.”

Trott nods and pulls away from the embrace. 

Truthfully he'd been looking forward to the hunting required of him every day, it was a small break from the suffocating walls he called home. A small freedom, consisting of him zipping through the sea and pretending he has no worries. 

“I'd best get on with it.”

He hears his mother’s sigh and can almost hear the unspoken words. All of them are words she’s said before. But words are never enough anymore. He wants her to choke on them.

He's late as it is and he’ll finish his duties later still, far later than any of his siblings.

He just hopes that it won't bring ire down upon him again. His body couldn't withstand another failure. 

He knows she's a step away from crying. He knows, but how can you comfort someone who's crying over your discomfort? How can you comfort your mother who stands idle and complacent? 

Trott stopped asking those questions a long time ago. There was never an answer he wanted to face.

Still he takes her hand and rubs his thumb across her knuckles, until she looks at him. 

“I'm okay, I promise.”

They know it's a lie but what are words for anymore aside from false comfort? 

She chooses to accept his comfort and nods jerkily and stands. He has to force back a bitter laugh at the thought that his father is like a puppet master. Pulling the strings even now, all from another room. 

He smiles, softly, at her and lately that's all he can do for her. He gives her everything soft of him, everything kind, so she can sleep better at night, and he can perform better. He pushes away the hatred that curls in his gut. 

“I love you, Mother” he chokes out the words, and she touches his hair and weeps some before leaving the room. 

He wishes he could give her more. He hates himself for hating her, hates himself for loving her. He can't win. 

Slowly, he gets to his feet and hobbles over to his first aid box that's hidden in his drawer. 

Going to the healers takes too much time and he can't stand their pitying looks. As beaten down as he is, even bruised like a dog, he still has pride. He is a Prince after all.

Trott manages to sit at his desk chair, clutching a bandage in his fist. 

He takes a moment to catch his breath before easing his shirt off. It's bloody and torn and crumpled, he’ll have to change and get rid of that shirt before starting his duties. 

His body is darkened by heavy bruising. His ribs ached, they ache so badly he's struggling to breathe. He starts to bandage them, wincing at the movements and the tightening pressure put on them. They aren't broken, thank the gods..

It's harder to breathe with the bandages on but this could prevent them from being that if he earns anymore beatings. A small but tightly packed layer of protection. He's naive but it makes him feel better.

They’ll heal soon enough. As a fae, he heals quickly. It also means he's harder to kill, unfortunately for him. 

Once he's finished with that he looks in the small mirror on the small and notices that blood is smeared across his face; Father’s ring must've cut him after impacting. 

Trott decides to wipe the blood away and ignore it. A cut can't do him anymore harm and he's late as it is.

He stands and pulls on a new plain shirt. It'll only go under his armour anyway.

His duties are waiting. He's to patrol the palace for a few hours, then attend his study lessons. 

He marches to the armoury, ignoring the eyes that follow him. He knows the palace maids gossip, they hear everything that happens. Surely they know of his beaten body, but he marches strong and proud and doesn't show any sign of faltering. It's time to perform.

He grabs his armour, slipping it into place and feeling it encase him. It's sturdy, steady, pressed flush against him. He sighs in relief, letting out a breath that had been lodged in his throat. Somehow he feels safer. He picks up his staff and sheaths two knives onto his belt. 

Trott sighs, takes a moment to steel himself, then goes to find out where he's patrolling today from Micsha.

The captain of the guard, Micsha Spitsorrow, is a family friend. He's known her since he was young. She's always been a cheerful but calming presence in the palace. The only time she's not smiling is when his father is in the room.

She always puts Trott on the niche patrol routes after one of his father's episodes. It's a kindness he rarely refuses, one that goes unnoticed by everyone but him. 

“Trott!” He hears a yell and breaks out into a smile upon recognising Micsha’s voice. “Over here!”

He hurries to her and embraces her as tightly as his injuries and armour will allow. Her armour clinks against his and he pulls away, not wanting to scratch her personalised set. He still remembers the ceremony in which she was granted her title. She's a valuable member of the sea court. A steadfast protector of his family. 

“Hallo Micsha.” he bows, a more formal greeting as business looms over him. She smiles and bows back, recognising that formal affairs are important.

It's easy to ignore everything else when she hands him a slip of paper, which, when he examines it, shows a route at the west end of the palace.

“Here's your patrol today. You're to stay on patrol for four hours.” He nods and tucks the map into his pocket.

His route is close to the library and the armoury, thankfully, his injuries won't be too strained then. Which he thinks, she's already thought of, because she's eyeing him with that worried look of hers. 

He looks down, to force away the beginnings of tears in his eyes, and sighs. A few fresh drips of blood have slipped down his face and stained his collar. He angrily wipes his face, ignoring the stinging.

“How much damage did he do, Trott?” She's worried, her voice is strong but he knows her. She's worried.

He shakes his head, already tired to the bone. “Not enough to be concerned about. Bruised ribs and a small cut on my face. I'm fine, Micsha. Leave me be.” His voice is sharp, it books no argument. 

A reminder that, despite his less than favourable status in the family, he's still above her in rank. It hurts to use his status, goes down like a poorly swallowed stone.

Seeds of regret twist in his stomach when her face goes blank. She's unreadable now, even to him. He's warning her away. She goes, willingly. 

“I'm always here if you need me, My Prince.” She bows, stiffly, and Trott can see the tension in her body. He nods, her loyalty warming him inside, and making it even harder to swallow the lump in his throat.

“Thank you. I'll be off now. See you tomorrow Mischa.” He touches her shoulder and turns away. 

He makes his way to the west wing of the palace. It's a short route, closest to the tall dark reef. It's unlikely that any intruders should come this way. Unlikely that he will have to fight. He will not die tonight.  
-  
The hours pass quickly. He marches, one foot in front of the other, letting his mind empty of everything. All he thinks of is walking. Aching. Walking. Aching.  
-  
Another guard arrives after four quiet slow hours. He nods at them and sets off to the armoury. 

He drops his armour off, in the care of one of the servants, and scurries away before he can be talked to.   
-  
There's studying to be done. 

At the moment he's focusing on history. It's to be memorised. He doesn't mind, the history of the fae folk is among his favourites of the things he has to learn. 

He's expected to know the ins and outs of magic, history, nature, fae biology. He's told it's because he's supposed to be knowledgeable, able to guide. He’s never to rule, only advise. 

He doesn't tell them how his anger makes him want to be fierce and cunning. He thinks about overthrowing his father, in the worst fits of his rage. But he doesn't make any move to do that. He simply listens to his orders. Like a good Son.

As he walks to his study hall he wonders if it's worth snagging a few magic books off of the shelves. It'll serve as midnight reading.

Trott had always loved magic. From the rituals of the sea folk to the secrets of the witches to the magic found in few babies born every decade. It all fascinated him in a way fairytales and the sea could not. 

Even as a young boy Trott felt too big for his skin, too brilliant for his life, too huge to be truly contained by the sea. Some deep part of him knew that if he were rid of these shackles of abuse he could be amazing.   
\-   
Trott arrives exactly ten minutes after being relieved of his armour, ideally his tutor should be here and ready by now but he sees no sign of them. Shrugging it off, he pulls a book off of the shelf, about bonding and courts of fae. He is of course mildly annoyed but he has some time to read about other more interesting things.

The tutors change every two months. A rule by his father, to stop him from getting too close to tutors. After a past incident with one of his now dead siblings. He doesn't care, doesn't bother learning their names anymore, just what he’s to learn from them. It’s easier to stay distant.

Trott sits down at the only desk in the library and reads. His tutor is late.

_In courts, if the members want to share and increase their own powers exponentially the fae can bond with each other. While the leader must bond with each individual, the individuals themselves have the choice of bonding with each other. Through blood magic and rituals it is made possible, though it has it’s risks. There is more than one recorded occasion in which a fae has died from sharing too much of itself. There are also occurrences in which bonds fail._

He hums and turns the page. 

_The stronger each individual fae is, the stronger and more deadly the court is. Each court has a leader. They operate under a hierarchy. The head of the court at the top. If the leader dies, every fae who is bonded feels it._

_Bond: A tangible connection between two objects or beings This bond is Magical in nature and can only be destroyed in three ways: 1) if both creatures are willing.  
2.) Through the use of strong destructive magic.  
3.) If one of the bonded dies. _

A crash startles him out of his fascinated stupor, his body tenses and he snaps his head up. His book is forgotten as he sees a spray of red, a blur of movement and the shine of a weapon. There’s a body on the floor.

He squints and sees his tutor. Dead, their slit throat seems to mock him. A twisted smile. He raises his eyes and sees a guard, sheathing his weapon.

Trott stands, glides out of his seat, and feels fury overtake him. 

The guard stays stony faced as Trott walks to the body and bends down to it. He touches the throat, coming away with blood covered fingers. He’s so angry. He clenches his fist. Feels the blood drip down his palm.

“And what, do tell, was that for?” He all but snarls because he’s so fucking tired, he's so done, everything hurts and his tutor is dead, he has blood on his fucking fingers. His tutor is dead. He can't study. He can't do the one thing he enjoys in this place. He's so fucking done.

The guard takes a step back, then two more as Trott stalks closer, all too aware of the fury in the prince’s eyes.

“Your father’s orders, Sire” 

The sire is tacked on hastily and he sneers at the guard before forcing himself to stop.

He closes his eyes, feeling his anger dry up into exhaustion. Of course. He sighs heavily and goes to get his book.

“Very well.” He walks past the guard and pats his shoulder, enjoying the flinch. “You have my apologies. Tell my mother I won't be dining with the family tonight, I feel a touch unwell.” 

The guard mumbled an affirmation or something, as he stormed off. He doesn't care.  
-  
Two hour later, he's calm again. Repression is a strong point of his. It has to be.

There's little point in hanging onto those emotions. The chance they could bubble up and burst out is too great. 

He’s sat in his room reading when his sister walks in. 

“You're to come to dinner, brother.” 

He meets her eyes and smiles, false but she doesn't know that. 

“I feel unwell.” He gestures vaguely, eyes flicking back down to his book. “I'm afraid I will sit this one out.”

He hears, more than sees, her teeth grind together and then.. his door slams.

He remembers how to breathe a few minutes after she's left.

Later, he thanks the gods that his mother didn't come to his room. She’d have given him a lecture about politeness. He's too tired to deal with that.


End file.
